Volume 2 — POEMS, WITH THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL ENGLISHED. 1646.

Languescente seculo, liceat ægrotari.

When we are dead, and now, no more Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score Distracts the town; when all is spent That the base niggard world hath lent Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise Of drawers, 'prentices and boys Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star; When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors, To fright us with forgotten scores; And such aged long bills carry, As might start an antiquary; When the sad tumults of the maze, Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face Of sergeants are not seen, and we No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee: When all these mulcts are paid, and I From thee, dear wit, must part, and die; We'll beg the world would be so kind, To give's one grave as we'd one mind; There, as the wiser few suspect, That spirits after death affect, Our souls shall meet, and thence will they, Freed from the tyranny of clay, With equal wings, and ancient love Into the Elysian fields remove, Where in those blessèd walks they'll find More of thy genius, and my mind. First, in the shade of his own bays, Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays The learnèd ghosts admire, and throng To catch the subject of his song. Then Randolph in those holy meads, His Lovers and Amyntas reads, Whilst his Nightingale, close by, Sings his and her own elegy. From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads, Through airy paths and sad abodes, They'll come into the drowsy fields Of Lethe, which such virtue yields, That, if what poets sing be true, The streams all sorrow can subdue. Here, on a silent, shady green, The souls of lovers oft are seen, Who, in their life's unhappy space, Were murder'd by some perjur'd face. All these th' enchanted streams frequent, To drown their cares, and discontent, That th' inconstant, cruel sex Might not in death their spirits vex. And here our souls, big with delight Of their new state, will cease their flight: And now the last thoughts will appear, They'll have of us, or any here; But on those flow'ry banks will stay, And drink all sense and cares away. So they that did of these discuss, Shall find their fables true in us.

Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize And triumph of thy scornful eyes, I sacrifice to heaven, and give To quit my sins, that durst believe A woman's easy faith, and place True joys in a changing face. Yet ere I go: by all those tears And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears; By thy own glories, and that hour Which first enslav'd me to thy power; I beg, fair one, by this last breath, This tribute from thee after death. If, when I'm gone, you chance to see That cold bed where I lodgèd be, Let not your hate in death appear, But bless my ashes with a tear: This influx from that quick'ning eye, By secret pow'r, which none can spy, The cold dust shall inform, and make Those flames, though dead, new life partake Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring O'er all the tomb a sudden spring Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds: And on each leaf, by Heaven's command, These emblems to the life shall stand Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood; The second, shot and wash'd in blood; And on this heart a dew shall stay, Which no heat can court away; But fix'd for ever, witness bears That hearty sorrow feeds on tears. Thus Heaven can make it known, and true That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings, Take this message and depart; Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings, At what thy airy voyage brings, That thou cam'st lately from my heart. Tell my lovely foe that I Have no more such spies to send, But one or two that I intend, Some few minutes ere I die, To her white bosom to commend. Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died, Whilst those water-nymphs did bring Flowers to cure what she had tried; And of my faith and love did sing. That if my Amoret, if she In after-times would have it read, How her beauty murder'd me, With all my heart I will agree, If she'll but love me, being dead.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death; Doating idolater! can silence bring Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try This silent courtship of a sickly eye. Witty to tyranny, she too well knows This but the incense of thy private vows, That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay; Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move, The language of thy tears may make her love. Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all, By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie, The much lov'd volume of my tragedy. Where, if you win her not, may this be read, The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.

Amyntas go, thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late.[43] Had she professèd[44] hidden fires, Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart, I could have quench'd my first desires, And we had only met to part. But, tyrant, thus to murder men, And shed a lover's harmless blood, And burn him in those flames again, Which he at first might have withstood. Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace; Durst think them feignèd tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face. This is her art, though this be true, Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears, Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew, Doth thrive and flourish in her tears. This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus That face hath many servants slain, Though th' end be not to ruin us, But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

If, Amoret, that glorious eye, In the first birth of light, And death of Night, Had with those elder fires you spy Scatter'd so high, Receivèd form and sight; We might suspect in the vast ring, Amidst these golden glories, And fiery stories;[49] Whether the sun had been the king And guide of day, Or your brighter eye should sway. But, Amoret, such is my fate, That if thy face a star Had shin'd from far, I am persuaded in that state, 'Twixt thee and me, Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50] For sure such two conspiring minds, Which no accident, or sight, Did thus unite; Whom no distance can confine, Start, or decline, One for another were design'd.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd, And Amoret, of thee we talk'd; The West just then had stolen the sun, And his last blushes were begun: We sate, and mark'd how everything Did mourn his absence: how the spring That smil'd and curl'd about his beams, Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams: The wanton eddies of her face Were taught less noise, and smoother grace; And in a slow, sad channel went, Whisp'ring the banks their discontent: The careless ranks of flowers that spread Their perfum'd bosoms to his head. And with an open, free embrace, Did entertain his beamy face, Like absent friends point to the West, And on that weak reflection feast. If creatures then that have no sense, But the loose tie of influence, Though fate and time each day remove Those things that element their love, At such vast distance can agree, Why, Amoret, why should not we?

If I were dead, and in my place Some fresher youth design'd To warm thee with new fires, and grace Those arms I left behind; Were he as faithful as the sun, That's wedded to the sphere; His blood as chaste and temp'rate run, As April's mildest tear; Or were he rich, and with his heaps And spacious share of earth, Could make divine affection cheap, And court his golden birth: For all these arts I'd not believe, —No, though he should be thine— The mighty amorist could give So rich a heart as mine. Fortune and beauty thou might'st find, And greater men than I: But my true resolvèd mind They never shall come nigh.[51] For I not for an hour did love, Or for a day desire, But with my soul had from above This endless, holy fire.

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die, I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me, Those sickly flames which now benighted be, Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove In them the metempsychosis of love. 'Twas I—when others scorn'd—vow'd you were fair, And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air, Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart, To arm those eyes against myself; to me Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony. I courted angels from those upper joys, And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice. I made the Indian curse the hours he spent To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent His former folly, and confess a sin, Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin. I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring; And made—to air those cheeks with fresher grace— The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face. Oh! jam satis ...

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite Our active fancies to believe it night: For taverns need no sun, but for a sign, Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine; And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul, With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl; As though the pot and poet did agree, Sack should to both illuminator be. That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow, Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak The evening to the plains, where, shot from far, They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star. The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair. Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts? No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown Musters his bleating herd and quits the down. Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air, Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair. Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep, Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep! But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands Of some base painter, that for gain hath made Her face the landmark to the tippling trade. This cup to her, that to Endymion give; 'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live. Choke may the painter! and his box disclose No other colours than his fiery nose; And may we no more of his pencil see Than two churchwardens, and mortality. Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street: Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave, Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave, When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day; And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way; When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud, Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels 'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels. Come, take the other dish; it is to him That made his horse a senator: each brim Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast Of all the herd—you'll say—was not the least. Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon, And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon, And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly Into Brundusium to consult, and lie. This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said We drink more to the living than the dead? Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff To honour others, do like those that sent Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent. Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine Spirit of wit, to make us all divine, That big with sack and mirth we may retire Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire; And by the influx of this painted sky, And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly; So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all, After full cups, have dreams poetical. Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink, Till the drowsy day-star wink; And in our merry, mad mirth run Faster, and further than the sun; And let none his cup forsake, Till that star again doth wake; So we men below shall move Equally with the gods above.

Mark, when the evening's cooler wings Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun, Leaving undone, What he begun, Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth To their first, low birth, Resigns, and brings. They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities, Threading with those false fires their way; But as you stay And see them stray, You lose the flaming track, and subtly they Languish away, And cheat your eyes. Just so base, sublunary lovers' hearts Fed on loose profane desires, May for an eye Or face comply: But those remov'd, they will as soon depart, And show their art, And painted fires. Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd, That my absent soul the same is, Careless to miss A glance or kiss, Can with those elements of lust and sense Freely dispense, And court the mind. Thus to the North the loadstones move, And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires: Thus Amoret I do affect; And thus by wingèd beams, and mutual fire, Spirits and stars conspire: And this is Love.

Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast Thy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest cast Deserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent, Can purchase stars, and buy a tenement For us in heaven; though here the pious streams Avail us not; who from that clue of sunbeams Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind Persuasive accent charm the wild loud wind? Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Book Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look But seldom meet a change; think you a tear Can blot the flinty volume? shall our fear Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we Give an advantage to adversity? Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just We bear our stars? What though I had not dust Enough to cabinet a worm? nor stand Enslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand? I boast a better purchase, and can show The glories of a soul that's simply true. But grant some richer planet at my birth Had spied me out, and measur'd so much earth Or gold unto my share: I should have been Slave to these lower elements, and seen My high-born soul flag with their dross, and lie A pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy. I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck up A dozen distress'd widows in one cup; Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth, Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth; Or patent it in soap, and coals, and so Have the smiths curse me, and my laundress too; Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bring The incens'd subject rebel to his king; And after all—as those first sinners fell— Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell. Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs, You that dispense man's fortune and his hours, How am I to you all engag'd! that thus By such strange means, almost miraculous, You should preserve me; you have gone the way To make me rich by taking all away. For I—had I been rich—as sure as fate, Would have been meddling with the king, or State, Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit, We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit, But, above all, thanks to that Providence That arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense, 'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so much Of Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touch Of these low things; and can with courage dare Whatever fate or malice can prepare: I envy no man's purse or mines: I know That, losing them, I've lost their curses too; And Amoret—although our share in these Is not contemptible, nor doth much please— Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie, We have a blessing which no gold can buy.

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house! Chaste treasurer of all my vows And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid My love's fair steps I first betray'd: Henceforth no melancholy flight, No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night, Disturb this air, no fatal throat Of raven, or owl, awake the note Of our laid echo, no voice dwell Within these leaves, but Philomel. The poisonous ivy here no more His false twists on the oak shall score; Only the woodbine here may twine, As th' emblem of her love, and mine; The amorous sun shall here convey His best beams, in thy shades to play; The active air the gentlest show'rs Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers; And the moon from her dewy locks Shall deck thee with her brightest drops. Whatever can a fancy move, Or feed the eye, be on this grove! And when at last the winds and tears Of heaven, with the consuming years, Shall these green curls bring to decay, And clothe thee in an aged grey —If ought a lover can foresee, Or if we poets prophets be— From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand A fresh grove in th' Elysian land; Where—most bless'd pair!—as here on earth Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth; So there again, thou'lt see us move In our first innocence and love; And in thy shades, as now, so then, We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West, And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East And famous Ganges, few there be that know What's truly good, and what is good, in show, Without mistake: for what is't we desire, Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire, So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed, Repentance seals the very act, and deed? The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate, And undo families: thus strife, and war Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share In empty honours and a bloody care To be the first in mischief, makes him die Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity. An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense, And that sad virtue ever, eloquence, Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse; And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse; He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold So far exceeds his father's store of old, As British whales the dolphins do surpass. In sadder times therefore, and when the laws Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armèd band Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates Of Lateranus, and his fair estate Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts Soldiers—though not invited—are the guests. Though thou small pieces of the blessèd mine Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake, Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake. Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief, It neither fears the soldier nor the thief; Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known, Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice. Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust, Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine. Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one Would still be laughing, when he would be gone From his own door; the other cried to see His times addicted to such vanity? Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep. Democritus his nimble lungs would tire With constant laughter, and yet keep entire His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was Addition to his store; though then—alas!— Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns, With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had He liv'd to see our Roman prætor clad In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown, Which scarce he could support—for it would down, But that his servant props it—and close by His page, a witness to his vanity: To these his sceptre and his eagle add, His trumpets, officers, and servants clad In white and purple; with the rest that day, He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay; Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen, 'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age —When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage So high as ours—his harmless and just mirth From ev'ry object had a sudden birth. Nor was't alone their avarice or pride, Their triumphs or their cares he did deride; Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears, But even their very poverty and tears. He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile As others mourn; nor was it to beguile His crafty passions; but this habit he By nature had, and grave philosophy. He knew their idle and superfluous vows, And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows, Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods, Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds. Yet to no other air, nor better place Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace; Which shows a man may be both wise and good, Without the brags of fortune, or his blood. But envy ruins all: what mighty names Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame, Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause Than being such; their honour, worth and place, Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns, And what the herald, with a learnèd care, Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare. So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd To pay his safety's vows; but when that face Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made—alas!— Betwixt his statue then, and common brass, They melt alike, and in the workman's hand For equal, servile use, like others stand. Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house, And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!" They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know Nothing of all the matter, when, or how, By what accuser, for what cause, or why, By whose command or sentence he must die. But what needs this? the least pretence will hit, When princes fear, or hate a favourite. A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear, Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here From Caprea does it; and thus ever die Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high. 'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how This took his friends? no private murmurs now? No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all His glory perish in one funeral? O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise The moon by night, but court the warmer rays O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still, And hate or love discreetly, as their will And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate Puts all their painted favours out of date. And yet this people that now spurn, and tread This mighty favourite's once honour'd head, Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars, Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom, Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she Her suffrages, and ancient liberty Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care For favourite or prince; nor will she share Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice. Of all the honours now within her walls, She only dotes on plays and festivals. Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall, They draw an ample ruin with them: all Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun, And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run. This makes, that circled with distractive fear The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear, And lest the action might a witness need, They bring their servants to confirm the deed; Nor is it done for any other end, Than to avoid the title of his friend. So falls ambitious man, and such are still All floating States built on the people's will: Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust Of an hour's glory, and a little dust Swells to such dear repentance! you that can Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span! Would you be as Sejanus? would you have, So you might sway as he did, such a grave? Would you be rich as he? command, dispose, All acts and offices? all friends and foes? Be generals of armies and colleague Unto an emperor? break or make a league? No doubt you would; for both the good and bad An equal itch of honour ever had. But O! what state can be so great or good, As to be bought with so much shame and blood? Alas! Sejanus will too late confess 'Twas only pride and greatness made him less: For he that moveth with the lofty wind Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd In act or thought, doth but increase his height, That he may loose it with more force and weight; Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he Would of misfortune make a prodigy. Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow, What but the weight of honours, and large fame After your worthy acts, and height of name, Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates, Easy to further your aspiring States, Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess. In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less. Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die Without a stab, a draught, or treachery. And yet to see him, that but yesterday Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray; And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears For fame, for eloquence, and store of years To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes, His boy assists him with his box and notes. Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just, Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save His free-born person from a foreign grave? All this from eloquence! both head and hand The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand Secure from danger, but the nobler vein With loss of blood the bar doth often stain. } Carmen Ciceronianum ········ O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam. ········ Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war. What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw At once her patriot, oracle, and law? Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars, Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear The factious gown, and tire his client's ear And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war, Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar, And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece Of some torn British galley, and to these The ensign too, and last of all the train The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain, Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek And rude barbarians equally do seek. Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust, And monuments—though all these things must die And perish like ourselves—whole kingdoms lie Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale, What weight affords the mighty general? This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand Could not contain—Ye gods! that give to men Such boundless appetites, why state you them So short a time? either the one deny, Or give their acts and them eternity. All Æthiopia, to the utmost bound Of Titan's course,—than which no land is found Less distant from the sun—with him that ploughs That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows, Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow, —As if that Nature meant to give the blow— Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay. The world and Nature yield to give him way. And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar 'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire His lofty spirits with a fresh desire. All is undone as yet—saith he—unless Our Pænish forces we advance, and press Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall, And plant our colours in Suburra's vale. O the rare sight! if this great soldier we Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see! But what's the event? O glory, how the itch Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch! He that but now all Italy and Spain Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again; And in the heart of Afric, and the sight Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight. Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts, Both places by his sword secur'd, though he In this distress must not acknowledg'd be; Where once a general he triumphed, now To show what Fortune can, he begs as low. And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd Conquest and war, and did amaze the world, Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath, Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death. For all that blood the field of Cannæ boasts, And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts, No other end—freed from the pile and sword— Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford. Go now, ambitious man! new plots design, March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine; That, after all, at best thou may'st but be A pleasing story to posterity! The Macedon one world could not contain, We hear him of the narrow earth complain, And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle Or Gyara had held him in exile; But Babylon this madness can allay, And give the great man but his length of clay. The highest thoughts and actions under heaven Death only with the lowest dust lays even. It is believed—if what Greece writes be true— That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown The spacious continent, and by plain force Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce; That seas exhausted were, and made firm land, And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand; That on their march his Medes but passing by Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry; With whatsoe'er incredible design Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine. But what's the end? He that the other day Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way Through all her angry billows, that assign'd New punishments unto the waves, and wind, No sooner saw the Salaminian seas But he was driven out by Themistocles, And of that fleet—supposed to be so great, That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat— Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat, Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float, Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood, And fought again with carcases, and blood. O foolish mad Ambition! these are still The famous dangers that attend thy will. Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years, Are the next vows; these with religious fears And constancy we pay; but what's so bad As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad Than misery of years? how great an ill Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still? It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood, Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food, And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen. Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit, Are several graces; but where age doth hit It makes no difference; the same weak voice, And trembling ague in each member lies: A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst, A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain To feed, than if he were to nurse again; So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends, That his own sons, and servants, wish his end. His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire The am'rous lover burns in, no desire: Or if there were, what pleasure could it be, Where lust doth reign without ability? Nor is this all: what matters it, where he Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see, Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can But scarce inform who enters, or what man He personates, what 'tis they act, or say? How many scenes are done? what time of day? Besides that little blood his carcase holds Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns, And never but in fits and fevers burns. Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock Of sickness and diseases to him flock, That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew, Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil More wards and widows; it were lesser toil To number out what manors and domains Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains Of weakness in the back, another pants For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants; Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain, That infant-like they must be fed again. These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill, And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill, They gape for meat; but sadder far than this Their senseless ignorance and dotage is; For neither they, their friends, nor servants know, Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too, No longer now they'll own; for madly they Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day, The misers cannot carry to the grave For their past sins, their prostitutes must have. But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see As great, as many: frail mortality, In such a length of years, hath many falls, And deads a life with frequent funerals. The nimblest hour in all the span can steal A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn, To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd These curses still, that with a restless mind, An age of fresh renewing cares they buy, And in a tide of tears grow old and die. Nestor,—if we great Homer may believe— In his full strength three hundred years did live: Happy—thou'lt say—that for so long a time Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear What Nestor says himself, when he his dear Antilochus had lost; how he complains Of life's too large extent, and copious pains? Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he Done worthy of a long life's misery. Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea. Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek, Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone In peace unto the lower shades; his son Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest. But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he, Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire, In his own house saw both the sword and fire; All white with age and cares, his feeble arm Had now forgot the war; but this alarm Gathers his dying spirits; and as we An aged ox worn out with labour see By his ungrateful master, after all His years of toil, a thankless victim fall: So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny: Yet died a man; but his surviving queen, Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen. I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass, With Lydian Crœsus, whom in vain—alas!— Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend, That happiness came not before the end. What man more bless'd in any age to come Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome, Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war, And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far, His soul had fled; exile and fetters then He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen; Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said A Roman general had begg'd his bread. Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars —Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars— Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows Made Cæsar guiltless; but sent him to lose His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd: This Lentulus, and this made him resist That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head. The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal, Are the last votaries, and their appeal Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow, They pray for sons, but with a louder vow Commend a female feature: all that can Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair The mother never thinks can be too fair. But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still The fairest children do their parents fill With greatest cares; so seldom chastity Is found with beauty; though some few there be That with a strict, religious care contend Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend: Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants An easy blush, and where she freely plants A less instruction serves: but both these join'd, At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd. So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win, And bribe the father to the children's sin; But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see Public adulterers, and must be Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law; Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star, Or more escapes than did the god of war. But worse than all, a jealous brain confines His fury to no law; what rage assigns Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills. But thy spruce boy must touch no other face Than a patrician? is of any race So they be rich; Servilia is as good, With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood. To please a servant all is cheap; what thing In all their stock to the last suit, and king, But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this As generous as the patrician is. But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him That Stenobœa murder'd; for both these Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please. A woman's spleen then carries most of fate, When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate. Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son, In such a hazard what should he have done? Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best, In whom alone beauty and worth did rest. This Messalina saw, and needs he must Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust. All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye Though Cæsar's wife, a public bigamy She dares attempt; and that the act might bear More prodigy, the notaries appear, And augurs to't; and to complete the sin In solemn form, a dowry is brought in. All this—thou'lt say—in private might have pass'd But she'll not have it so; what course at last? What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd, Without redress thy Silius will be lost; If not, some two days' length is all he can Keep from the grave; just so much as will span This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes That Claudius last his own dishonour knows. But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust; Nor was it much a fault; for whether he Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny. So fatal beauty is, and full of waste. That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste. What then should man pray for? what is't that he Can beg of Heaven, without impiety? Take my advice: first to the gods commit All cares; for they things competent and fit For us foresee; besides, man is more dear To them than to himself; we blindly here, Led by the world and lust, in vain assay To get us portions, wives and sons; but they Already know all that we can intend, And of our children's children see the end. Yet that thou may'st have something to commend With thanks unto the gods for what they send; Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad, Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add A needless horror to thy death; that knows 'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes; That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway And keep all passions under lock and key; That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers An honest want, before rich injurers. All this thou hast within thyself, and may Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way; What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can] Frail, perilous honours add unto a man? What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife? Virtue alone can make a happy life. To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we Fortune adore, and make our deity.